


Advent: Passion

by FyrMaiden



Series: Klaine Advent 2015 [16]
Category: Glee
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 02:31:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5440178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana has had enough of Blaine moping about their tiny apartment. It's time to get up, get out, and meet new people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent: Passion

Santana has had enough. After the third repeat of Blaine’s sadsack playlist of loneliness and misery, she’d been ready to commit hari kari, and after the fifth, she’d actually started trying to work out if there was a way of setting the scene so that she wouldn’t suffer too long when she threw herself on a kitchen knife. Now, on the eighth run through of an Adele-heavy soundtrack to heartbreak, she’s changed her mind. She’s going to hurl Blaine Anderson and his fucking iPod out of their sixth floor window and she will explain to their landlord later. Hell, he’ll probably understand that she was driven to it by her human burrito of a roommate, currently ensconced lengthways on their one comfortable couch, literally wrapped from head to toe in a blanket. All she’s seen of him all day is his eyebrows, drawn down into miserable straight lines, the corners of his mobile muppet mouth pointing towards his shoulders. She’s done her time. She’s had enough. She will drive a pair of scissors into the innards of the damn iPod. She will walk to the nearest store and purchase a hammer, and then she will duct tape the machine to the table and hit it until it’s a pile of formerly overpriced crap. She will - 

She takes a deep breath. She will, very calmly, walk into their den. She will, very calmly, remove the iPod from the docking station. She will, very calmly, suggest that maybe, after two days of lying on the couch waiting for her to bring him tea, suggest that perhaps he would like to get up and carry on with his life, because one bad break up is not the end of the fucking world - 

She takes a second deep breath and exhales slowly, and then another. She plants her hands on her hips and waits for the deep breaths to actually make her feel less like she’s auditioning for a roll as one of the Merry Murderesses of the Cook County Jail. God knows he has it coming. “He ran into my knife,” she mutters. In the other room, the playlist of limitless ennui cycles to Amy Winehouse, and she knows that there’s going to be a cover of Jolene in under three minutes, and then the rallying cry of Read All About It before they cycle back to the beginning again, when Whitney will belt out her anthem to cheating spouses and Blaine’s dumb face will crumple for the ninth time. Enough. 

Jolene is the nail in the coffin. She marches into their tiny den, drags the curtains open, and thrusts his phone at his face. “You have seventeen missed calls from,” she stops and checks, “‘Cute Coffee Shop Boy’, and one text from the same that wants you to call him back, or meet him. You’re not the first person to have his heart broken, Jesus fucking Christ, Anderson, if I wanted these dramatics I’d have agreed to live with Berry. You seemed relatively normal.”

Blaine sighs and rolls onto his other side, but his blanket fails to move with him and he splutters as his next melodramatic inhale leaves him with a mouthful of wool blend. 

“Serves you right,” Santana says, and drops the phone on his head. She kicks the iPod dock off at the wall socket, and takes the iPod with her to the kitchen, where she throws it into the back of the junk drawer, in the vague hope that it will meet an unpleasant demise up against the corkscrew. Then she thinks better of that, and retrieves the corkscrew so she can lever open the bottle of wine that’s been sitting in the refrigerator, waiting for the perfect excuse. Forty-eight hours of mopey roomie is, she thinks, exactly that. 

She’s three quarters of the way through a large glass, and half way through a Hot Pocket, when the human burrito appears in the doorway. He sniffs, and she stares, and he says, “That smells good.” Santana stares at the sandwich on her plate, and decides that maybe Blaine requires real sympathy if he thinks Hot Pockets smell _good_. 

“There’s another one,” she says. “If you want it?”

The blanket falls pathetically from the top of his head, the tousled mess of two day old gel and naturally curly hair combining to make him look as unkempt as it’s possible for one preppy twenty year old to look. He bobs his head, and she sighs and wonders how his mother let him go. Or the good for nothing asshole that she’d _known_ was trouble from the first moment Blaine had brought him back here and whom she now wishes she’d made feel more uncomfortable, because Blaine Anderson is good people and does not deserve to hurt - 

She slams a Hot Pocket into the microwave and huffs a sigh. 

Blaine finally loses the blanket when his Hot Pocket pings. He sits on one of her reclaimed chairs, curling his bare toes around the legs as he picks his sandwich apart. She wonders again how maliciously evil a person has to be to want to see him in this kind of pain. 

She wonders if a person can claim provocation for hunting down assholes and breaking their fingers one at a time when they _clearly_ deserve it.

Blaine says, “Is the person you meet after - after. Is it always going to be a temporary rebound thing?”

Santana watches him, and thinks about everything she knows about him. Blaine loves in absolutes. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him not give his whole heart to the person lucky enough to have it. She’s not sure he knows _how_ to rebound. He chews slowly, meticulously, and she says, “Probably not, for you.”

Blaine is quiet for a long minute, and then he licks cheese from his fingers and says, “Could you pass me a fork, please?” 

Santana smiles to herself, finds him a fork, and finishes her wine. He’ll be okay.

*

It takes a month for the iPod to make its way out of the drawer.

Santana comes home from a late night shift at the stupid diner she’s been working at since she landed in New York at 18, because, as it turns out, the odd commercial or dancing gig does not pay the rent reliably. It’s almost midnight, her feet hurt, her bra is digging into her boobs, and she’s sure that smiling politely at racist white women has given her hives. All she wants is a hot bath, and a hot date with her stories, and the apartment is, instead, full of the upbeat strains of Blaine’s bouncy playlist of eternal happiness. She might vomit out of spite. She slams the door, and the music drops in volume, Blaine’s gelled head appearing around the door of his bedroom.

“Hey!” he calls, and steps into the hall. His naked toes wiggle on the laminate, and he pads toward her quickly. She turns and moves her hair out of the way, and Blaine unzips her uniform so that she doesn’t have to fight with that before she climbs into the tub.

“Hey yourself,” she says. Down the hall, the music stops. She raises both eyebrows, and Blaine’s cheeks go that shade of pink that she finds the most ridiculous on a grown adult. Even one whose wardrobe implies he’s still playing dress up with the girls in kindergarten. She’s politely not going to mention that the buttons on his polo shirt are done up wonky, though. 

“There’s, um, we - we brought food home,” he says. 

“We?” she says, and Blaine stares at her and then glances over his shoulder. She doesn’t want to say she’s enjoying his discomfort, but she’d be lying if she didn’t. “Cute Coffee Shop Boy?” she says, making air quotes with her fingers, and Blaine can’t keep the grin from his face.

“Kurt,” he says. Santana can hear in his voice that he’s lost already. Rebound Cute Coffee Shop Boy is, if nothing else, probably not a rebound. Of course. Blaine and the way he gives his heart away. Blaine continues, “He works as a barista between auditions. He’s a singer, and an actor, and -” 

“And what food did Cute Coffee Shop Boy decide we were eating?” Santana says, stepping around Blaine and into the kitchen. She puts a pod in the coffee machine, and then reaches behind her to unclip her bra, breathing out as it releases its death grip on her tits. 

Even she jumps when a second voice, at once familiar and strange, all at once high and incredibly male, says, “It’s mostly pastries and fresh noodle salad rescued from an end of day culling.” 

She looks up sharply, and sees someone who must be Kurt standing beside Blaine in the doorway. He’s all height, from the impossible length of his legs to the towering sweep of his hair, still combed in a perfect pompadour, despite whatever he’s been doing to Blaine to make his buttons go askew, and Santana stares at him down the length of her nose. She’s standing in her own kitchen, half-naked and exhausted, but this boy needs to know - 

She points a finger at him as she dumps her purse on the counter, her bra strap sliding down her arm. “My old man knows people,” she says. “If you hurt him.”

Kurt’s eyebrows shoot up, and Blaine grips his hand, even as he glares at Santana. She thinks he looks like a sparky puppy. She’d worry about her ankles, but she doesn’t think he can reach. “Her dad’s a dentist,” he says, and Kurt snorts a laugh that makes his eyes twinkle. She hates him, probably. Him and his pretty face and his ability to make Blaine smile that smile she’d been starting to worry she’d never again.

She’ll never admit it, not even if they waterboard her, but this Kurt creature, she sort of does like the way he looks at Blaine. Like he’s the moon and stars. Blaine’s good people. He deserves utter devotion. She dumps creamer in her coffee and leaves them to their pastries and noodles and kisses. She’s got a hot date with a bath and a dancer she’s sort of having this thing with.

Besides, he and Blaine looks good together, and that’s got to be at least fifty percent of the battle.


End file.
